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Eraj's POV The words from that anonymous text message kept playing in my head, a cold, hard knot in my stomach. "Ask him about his brother." They had been stuck there since I left the bar last night, cutting through the fuzzy feeling of a few too many drinks. They made the comfortable mess I'd almost gotten used to feel completely wrong. I'd sat with Abeeha for hours, trying to figure it all out. "Who would even know something like that? And why tell me?" I paced my small living room, running my hand through my already messy hair. "It has to be someone who knows Zain, but also knows... us." The word 'us' felt strange when I said it out loud. It was like admitting there was something between me and my infuriating boss, a weird pull that I couldn't explain. Abeeha, always the sensible one, made us strong tea. She watched me with worry in her eyes. "Look, it could be a lot of things. Maybe it's a mad ex-worker trying to cause trouble. Or maybe it's actually important. You said he changed, right? In the elevator, he was... human." I dropped onto my old sofa, picking at a loose thread. "He was. He was so calm. And then yesterday, after I messed up that big meeting, he was furious, but he didn't fire me. It's like he almost likes the chaos I bring." I let out a short, disbelieving laugh. "But this... his brother? That's way more personal." "So, what are you going to do?" Abeeha pushed, looking right at me. "Are you going to ask him?" I hugged my knees to my chest. Talking to Zain about something so deep and personal felt huge and scary. Zain was a puzzle, a man with sharp edges but also hidden parts. Would he just shut me down? Get angry? Or would I see a tiny crack in his perfect calm? My mind raced, full of doubt, but also a strong feeling that I had to know. I couldn't just let it go. The secret, whatever it was, suddenly felt connected to me, like a piece of a puzzle I never knew was missing until now. ________________________________________ The next morning, the shiny, quiet Malik Enterprises building felt less like a fancy prison and more like a carefully built wall. Every step I took felt heavier than usual. Every look towards Zain's big office door felt important and strange. The mess from the day before was gone, replaced by a tense feeling. I felt it in myself, and I also felt it coming from Zain. Zain, who usually moved quickly and took control, was strangely still. He sat at his huge, dark wood desk, his phone pressed to his ear. His voice was low and short, barely reaching my desk. His jaw was tight, a small muscle jumping in his cheek. He looked... heavy. Stressed. It was the kind of stress that went deeper than a big business deal going wrong. This was so different from the calm, almost gentle man who held me in the elevator. This sudden change just made me even more uneasy. I found myself stealing glances at him. My usual messy energy was gone, replaced by a sharp watchfulness. Was this about his brother? Was he sad? Angry? Did something terrible happen? I tried to read his posture, the small changes in his face, looking for any clue, any tiny break in his strong outer shell that might explain the secret message. The man was like a strong fort, but now I felt like I knew there was a secret path, and I might have the key. ________________________________________ Around the middle of the morning, Ms. Davies, Zain’s always-neat and super-efficient head of operations, appeared beside my desk. Her voice was sharp and clear. "Miss Shah, Mr. Malik needs these very old papers sorted and put into the archives on the third floor. He specifically asked for your... attention to this job. It’s a very big pile, going back many years." My shoulders sagged. Archives. Just the word made me think of dust, forgotten papers, and time moving incredibly slowly. "Right," I mumbled, pushing my chair back with a sigh. This was exactly the kind of boring job I hated, but a small, stubborn part of me also saw it as an unexpected chance. Away from Zain's watchful, now seemingly burdened, eyes. A chance to breathe. A chance to think. Maybe even a chance to snoop. The archives on the third floor were proof of how much history Malik Enterprises held. Rows and rows of light brown metal cabinets stretched far into the dim space, like silent guards protecting old secrets. One flickering light hummed above, casting long, moving shadows that danced with the tiny dust particles always floating in the air. The smell was dry, like old paper, mixed with a faint, musty smell that showed years of being left alone. I felt a small shiver. This was going to be a long, dull job. I started with the oldest boxes. My fingers quickly got dirty with ink and fine gray dust. The work was slow, the same thing over and over, and terribly boring. My first annoyance slowly, surely, turned into a feeling of nothingness. I sorted, I filed, I sometimes sneezed. My thoughts floated between the endless bills and reports and the unsettling picture of Zain's tight face. The anonymous text message was a constant low sound in my mind, a nagging question mark that wouldn't go away. His brother. What had happened? And why was it so important for me to know? ________________________________________ I was almost finished with a very thick pile of old bills from the early 2000s, deep inside a section marked "Past Projects - 1990-2005." My hand, tired from so much sorting, touched something different. It wasn't the smooth, cold metal of the cabinet, or the rough feel of a normal paper folder. I followed the feeling and pulled open the bottom drawer of an old, big filing cabinet that was tucked away in the very darkest corner of the room, almost hidden behind a tall shelf. Most of the files inside had faded dates and common company names – 'Fourth Quarter Sales 1998', 'Legal Papers 2001', 'Client Accounts - Z'. But then I saw it. Tucked carefully behind some money reports from 2003, almost as if someone had hidden it there on purpose, was a small, plain black folder. It felt different. Thicker, made of a stiffer, almost leathery material, it looked too new, too clean from the dust, to be part of the regular files. It stood out, stark and alone, a quiet strange thing in a sea of organized papers. A strange, strong urge came over me. This felt different. This felt important. My heart started to beat a little faster, a nervous flutter against my ribs. There was nothing written on the outside, no hint about what was inside. It wasn't locked, just tucked away with an almost careless way that made me think someone wanted to hide it. My fingers shook a little as I carefully, almost without breathing, opened the stiff cover. I gasped. The air seemed to rush out of my lungs in a silent whoosh. Inside, standing out against the crisp white paper, was a single, bolded name, typed in a neat, almost cold way. But the name itself was far from cold or calm. It was personal. It was impossible. "EHSAN SHAH." My father. ________________________________________ My world didn't just tip sideways; it spun wildly, making me feel dizzy and lightheaded. Ehsan Shah. My father. But he was... gone. Dead. Had been for what felt like forever. The sudden, dizzying rush of adrenaline made me feel like the dusty air in the archives had suddenly become thin and hard to breathe. Why? Why would Zain Malik, the powerful, cold businessman, have a hidden, unmarked folder with my dead father's name on it? The question clawed at me, sharp and demanding, screaming for an answer that I instinctively knew would smash the normal life I thought I had. Whispers from my childhood, words I had always thought were just silly stories, now screamed in my mind, clear as if someone had just said them. My mother, her voice quiet, her eyes wide with a fear I hadn't understood back then. Nervous looks between family members. The word: "Whistleblower." It had always been a vague idea, a dark shape connected to my father suddenly disappearing. A story I'd been told was an accident, a sad loss. But the details were always cloudy, quickly changed whenever I, as a curious child, asked questions. Now, staring at his name in Zain Malik’s private, hidden files, a terrifying, unbreakable connection began to form. A cold dread crept into my bones, taking over the first shock. This wasn’t just a random chance. This was on purpose. New questions burst in my mind, a flood of disbelief and a rising wave of fear. Why did Zain have a folder with my father's name? How were they connected? What truly happened to my father? Was Zain involved in his death or disappearance? And if so, what kind of man was Zain Malik, really? What other secrets was he hiding behind that calm face, behind those powerful, dark eyes? The anonymous message about his brother, the sudden tension in Zain's face – it all started to twist together, making a horrifying picture of hidden truths. ________________________________________ Suddenly, a sharp creak of the floorboards echoed from the hallway. My blood ran cold. Footsteps. Clear and steady. Someone was coming. Panic hit me, a raw, basic urge to hide. I couldn’t be caught. Not now. Not like this. With a burst of adrenaline, I shoved the black folder back into its hidden spot. I slammed the drawer shut with a soft thud that sounded unbelievably loud to me. I quickly, almost wildly, went back to "filing" papers. I grabbed a random stack of bills and pretended to sort them, my back to the door. My breath was rough and fast. The footsteps got closer, closer. I didn’t dare turn around. My mind raced with shock, terror, and the huge meaning of what I had just found. My father. Ehsan Shah. My world had just been ripped wide open.
